


Oranges and Sunshine

by Shachaai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 22:20:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3334874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Portugal, Spain and England on a sunny day. If it were any other group than this three, it’d probably be called ‘hanging out.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oranges and Sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> Repost of old fic from my tumblr. There's some implied engport if you squint.

England complains _viciously_ about being pulled out of the shade – voraciously, vivaciously, virulently; he makes an art of it, _rams_ his floppy sunhat low over his face and curls up in a sulky ball on the lounger on Portugal’s balcony, pouting out his feelings about being forced outside into the _sun._

Considering England’s excuse for turning up on Portugal’s doorstep in the first place had been to escape the snow at his house and _find_ some sun, Portugal isn’t inclined to be deeply sympathetic.

Spain, who had turned up the day before England with an even _worse_ excuse (one day, somehow, Spain and England will realise how alike they are and the world will end. Until then, Portugal shall have to continue banging his head off the nearest wall), had just tossed a (heavy) bottle of suntan-cream at England’s head.

It _is_ quite a nice day; the sky above blue and cloudless, the sun just coming down from its height. Normally, with Spain over for visiting, Portugal would just be waking from his siesta around this time – but _England_ had made incredulous noises when, earlier, Spain had brightly announced it was nap-time. Spain couldn’t _possibly_ need a siesta, England had insisted; the idiot Spaniard had only rolled out of bed shortly after eleven o’ clock. (The lecture had been shorter than it usually would be – the lecturer’s moral high ground had been a great deal more limited than usual, considering England himself had happily lazed in his bed-sheets until ten-thirty.)

With ‘nap’ off the itinerary Spain had looked pathetic until they had all agreed to do _something_ relaxing – and so they had went to the balcony (despite England’s protests), cramped close enough so that if Portugal stretches out either of his feet from his seat at the table there he can find either his brother’s thigh, warm through his jeans from sitting cross-legged on the balcony tiles, or England’s ankle, dangling bare and lazy over the lounger’s edge from where its owner has unwound himself, spilling out over the slats like he has liquid bones.

Pleased with the (unusual) peace between them, Portugal reads a book. Spain, down on the ground and leaning on the lounger behind him, hums low in his throat and peels oranges for whatever it is he’ll be preparing for dinner tonight, taking the fruit from a bowl on his left, pulling off the skin and breaking the oranges into their segments before putting them into a cloth-covered bowl on his right. England, his skin already beginning to turn brown where the sun catches it, dozes – until he sleepily notices what it is that Spain is actually _wearing_ , and glares meaningfully at the only one of them to be out on the balcony in a thick winter jumper.

Portugal watches England warily from the corner of his eye, not wanting _another_ battle between his guests that day – but England appears to have distracted _himself,_ attention caught by the bowl full of orange segments right beneath his nose, sweet and scented. 

The bible does not mention which fruit it was that tempted Eve.

Snake-quick, when Spain looks to the left, England’s hand has snuck down to steal a bright orange segment from the bowl on the other’s right.

And another.

And another.

Portugal touches his toes to England’s ankle, casts a reproving glance when the other does nothing but give him a sweet wicked smile in return – not much more than white teeth under a floppy brim.

“You’re freckling,” Portugal tells him, and has the immense pleasure of watching England’s smile slide straight into a pout.

“I don’t _freckle,_ ” England insists. He has a trickling line of freckles edging down his arms – undoubtedly, there’ll be a large patch over his cheeks and nose later as well.

“You’re freckling,” Spain says, without even bothering to look up from his oranges. “The bits of you that aren’t burning red, anyway.”

England scowls at both of them, and curls up in a ball again after yanking his sunhat down even more firmly over his face. He goes back to glaring at Spain’s head again and, after about half an hour of pouting is finished with, stealing more of Spain’s oranges. Spain doesn’t notice – until he’s finished peeling them all, that is, and turns to investigate the bowl beside him.

“It was birds,” England says promptly, when Spain turns to him with accusing eyes, demanding an explanation for this travesty.

Spain’s rising huff fades in the face of bewilderment. “Birds ate _all_ of my oranges?”

“ _Terribly_ hungry birds,” England insists, poker face, and Portugal is forced to lift his book to hide his growing smile behind its cover, “all skin and bone. Your heart would have broken had you noticed them.”

Spain looks to Portugal, apparent second witness to the orange-napping, with beseeching eyes. “Hermano?”

Portugal coughs, straightening both his smile and spine, and nods seriously. “Boney little things, feathers all ragged – it was such a wonder they could still fly.”

England eyes him, wary of the poke at his appearance. “I wouldn’t call them _ragged._ ”

“No,” Portugal assures him and Spain both, and England pouts at him. Again, “they were _definitely_ ragged. All worn out from hunger and heat.”

“Worn out?”

“Worn out. They looked a mess.”

England sends Portugal a look that explicitly conveys _who_ he thinks _,_ out of the two of them, looks like a mess more often than not. But he speaks to Spain, who is now busy looking about the balcony for these poor birds. “Your oranges were a noble sacrifice.”

“Which we were quite willing to make,” Portugal agrees, and puts down his book. “Irmão, Inglaterra will help you prepare some more.”

“I will?” Dubious, England tilts up his hat’s brim. (He _does_ have freckles on his nose.)

“He will,” Portugal confirms, and Spain sits down hard enough on the lounger to almost make England topple straight off the other end of it. “Or we don’t feed him tonight.”

Later, Portugal will dearly regret putting Spain and England in the same kitchen together, near sources of open flame and sharp objects. For now though – it’s still a pleasant day, and both Spain and England are warm and orange-scented when Portugal takes the space between them, Spain pecking his brother on the cheek and then using him as a prop to look for nonexistent birds, and England dumping his silly hat on Portugal’s head so that he can lean lazily on the man’s shoulder beneath.

“ _Birds_ or not, you really _are_ freckling,” Portugal tells him, amused, circling his fingers around England’s pinking wrist when it finds his thigh.

England digs his (sharp) nails into Portugal’s leg.

Spain lifts up the hat, and looks at them both suspiciously. “…What do you mean, ‘ _or not’?_ ”


End file.
